Morning Star
by SeungSeiRan
Summary: Beauty is such an overrated trait. Let her see for herself. Dragunov x Anna.


Yeah, about the 'pairing'. Let's just say that I'm weird and I like being that way. Requested and dedicated to** spongecake2**. Hope you like it! And guys, do give his work a read if you can. You won't regret it! About the song, it's by German heavy-metal group, Rammstein, and means 'Morning Star'. Absolutely loving it…

* * *

_She's so ugly that when it gets dark_

_When she looks into the sky_

_Then __**the light is frightened**_

_It shines into her face from below_

_**So she must hide during the day**_

_**She just doesn't want to scare the light**_

_**She lives in the shadows until the glow fades**_

_She sees a star shining in the twilight and pleads_

_**Paint beauty on my cheeks.**_

- Morgenstern, Rammstein

* * *

In his opinion, a woman was never more attractive or repulsive than when she is at her weakest point.

Like this one here, her rage consumed by the scorching numbness of the alcohol pouring down her throat, and her pain concealed by the layers of cosmetic designed to reveal and hide what lies behind the painted facial expressions. The red lipstick is smeared on the on her lips and the tears have made her mascara run leaving streams of black smudges to stain her pale, hollow cheeks. A pathetic sight indeed.

Such is the vice of self-loathing.

He replayed the details of her case-file once more in his mind. Anna Williams, 5'4", 108 lbs, blood type A, practitioner of Koppo-jutsu and Aikido. Current occupation as an assassin, daughter of notorious sniper, Richard Williams, and Aikido champion, Rachel Williams. One sister, Nina Williams. Birthplace, Ireland. Body count, fifteen as estimation. A far cry from the amounts that her father and elder sister had accumulated between them.

Needless little details.

For the most part, she remained silent and drowsy in her drunken stupor. At intervals, she'd awaken and beckon to the surly bartender, whispering things which were only sane and concise to her imagining. Pathetic creature as she was, the deed needed to be done.

The Russian stood up and walked over to where the lady in scarlet lay, unconscious of her surroundings. Each and every step carefully and precisely measured. Short, staccato steps, designed for quick and efficient movement. He caught a glimpse of his chalk-white, gothic features reflected in her wine-glass, partially stained by the red liquid within. Her head had flopped down onto her folded arms on the cold, marble counter-top. Suffice to say, she was only vaguely aware of a slip of paper being placed a few centimeters from her gloved fingers.

* * *

Closing-time arrived and she was escorted back to her hotel-room by a large, muscled bouncer who'd copped a feel of her bosom before shoving her roughly into the room, flinging the keys after her, and shutting the door before she left. The note remained scrunched in her fist, unnoticed to her.

It was an unforgivably late hour in the afternoon when she finally awoke. Swearing at the pain of an insufferable hangover, she unfurled the piece of paper and attempted to decipher its contents, presented in clear, capital letters.

She read it. And reread it. Twice more until she was convinced of its authenticity. To her consternation, she had been watched. Someone had spied on her last night as she'd crashed and burned. And instead of mocking, this someone had stated the truth.

She'd let her pent-up anger and insecurities get the best of her because she'd felt weak. Useless. Misunderstood.

The three words echoed in her mind.

_Weak, useless, misunderstood._

These were the words which summed up everything which people knew of her. Or _thought _they knew of her. They lusted for the toned, experienced body honed by years of training and countless one-off 'relationships'. They despised the audacity that presented itself in her attire and demeanor, the veil which covered the multitude of hurt and pain that she'd been forced to bear from the day that she'd inhaled her first breath of air.

Unlike her elder sister two years before her, Anna had been born pale and sickly, two months premature. Her father had been absolutely disgusted by the fact that she was less strong and hardy than Nina and had immediately placed his favor on the latter. Whilst both of them trained outdoors in the fresh air and sunlight, she could only stay indoors and look on in envy as she missed out on the love and companionship of the one person she desired them from.

Of course, she'd gotten stronger over the years. Much stronger. A man-killer in more ways than one. But it hadn't been enough to make them see.

To them, she'd always be plain, useless Anna.

To the world, she was an object of lust and envy. Both in the most harsh degree…

But here, on this little scrap of paper, someone had got it. Someone understood her.

It frightened her.

* * *

He continued with the notes. It took time but she was finally beginning to let her guard down. Frankly, it disgusted him. There was no place in this world for the weak. As they said, only the strong survived. Kill or be killed.

This woman's desperation to be loved amused him. She didn't even know him. He was, after all, just a stranger who observed her well and sent her 'nice' notes. Frilly compliments and over-zealous descriptions weren't his style but he could tell she appreciated the honesty. What was he to her but a mystery in writing? Never to be seen or heard. He preferred it this way. Emotionless, no strings attached.

Where he came from, everything was cold. The weather, the food, the bath-water, even the people. Dying was only too easy and suicide was considered a coward's act. To survive, you had to be lifeless. An inanimate object which couldn't feel any of the emotions which hampered the reasoning of humans. Rather like a computer with the ability to function logically minus the fear of harming another. To live, you had to die.

He'd been dead for as long as he could remember. It suited him well. Blocked out the memories…

He watched in complete nihility as she took the bait. Another note attached to a single red rose. The expression in one eye of hers spoke of suspicion and caution. The other grew moist in emotional gratitude.

Yes, she'd fall in no time at all.

What he felt now was contempt, he told himself. Not pity, contempt.

* * *

He found out about her partiality for vin rouge on one particular day. The dying glow of the setting sun was still too bright for his liking and he winced. However, all missions, unpleasant as they might be, had to be carried out and completed. Failure due to any weakness on his part was not an option. Wincing, he stared on through the pair of binoculars at her scarlet-clothed form. Damned waste of time but…

She looked better than she had a few nights ago. Her hair perfectly coiffed, not a spot of dirt on the crimson quipao. Normally, such physical perfection would have irritated him but the memory of her, vulnerable and embittered, kept him sated for the moment. For a moment, he dared to wonder if she believed what he'd written.

The morning star. Rarer and more beautiful than its midnight counterpart.

She pretends she's a rose yet all the while knowing that she's a born thistle. Ugly and prickly.

The cowardly harlot. Running away from the truth. Pain must be borne with gritted teeth and a will of iron. Obviously, she lacked heavily in the latter characteristic. It amazed him as to how such a pathetic excuse for a female could pass as a symbol of desire and intrigue. But then again, he'd never had much fondness for the 'fairer sex'. Women served well as sources of procreation of future generations and nourishment for resulting offspring. That was all.

She certainly took her time in drinking. It was getting to be quite annoying. Wasting her time (and his), swishing the wine in the glass and contemplating before she took a tentative sip. Alcohol was an indulgence for imbeciles. For the life of him, he couldn't imagine anyone being so willing to give up control over their bodily functions in exchange for one night of numbing delirium.

Such were the oddities of the human race.

* * *

Of course, she was no expert but wasn't clear, upright handwriting supposed to reflect a personality of the same sort? Either that or the science of graphology was highly overrated. Like her sister, overrated.

Pretty, popular, perfect Nina Williams. Sharper than a blade, colder than an iceberg. Anna couldn't understand what the fascination was all about. Was it the fear her sister instilled into the hearts of men that made her all the more desirable? Kinky, kinky…

The envy was killing her. At the least, it was drilling holes in her liver from the almost daily consumption of wine. Sweet and fiery was the way she preferred it. Evening after evening of endless drowning in her sorrows followed by the inevitable regret-filled mornings. Perhaps it was because she actually _enjoyed_ the pain. What did you call that? Masochism?

Time and again, she'd reprimanded herself for this cursed sensitivity.

An assassin is born and bred to kill in cold blood. Never get personal with either the client or the victim, never shed a tear. And here she was, swooning over a bloody 'love-note'.

Her nails dug into her palm as she clenched the paper into her fist.

* * *

It was working.

Piece by piece, bit by bit, she was crumbling.

Lovely, delicate butterfly with a broken wing flying straight into the spider-web.

Was that a haiku in his mind?

* * *

Beautiful indeed. Too beautiful to believe.

_Lies, lies, LIES!_

Oh fuck, this was insanity. How could she give her heart away to a stranger in prose?

_Lies… sweet, sweet lies._

* * *

A bit of research does work wonders. Identify the target, seek out weaknesses, exploit as you like…

Simple, really.

The countdown had begun.

* * *

The night crept on into morning. The stars glowed violently through the frosted glass. Unable to resist, she flung the windows open.

Joy gushed forth from within her soul as she glimpsed the light which illuminated what the beauty the world couldn't see. For a few moments, she laughed out loud, the sound soaring through the air like the notes of a music-box.

It was too late when she caught sight of the glint of the sniper-rifle in the distance.

* * *

Her loveliness is light.

He pulled the trigger.

Her beauty is her grotesqueness. Overlapping…

Crimson…


End file.
